


Red Christmas

by okapi



Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Christmas, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!mycroft, Femlock, Gender or Sex Swap, Sexual Content, Vampire Mycroft, Vampire Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:22:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5347379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I suppose vampires dream of a red Christmas.”<br/>“I haven’t dreamt of Christmas in over a hundred years.”</p><p>A Femlock Vampire Christmas. From <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5070031/chapters/11658898">The Cup that Runneth Over</a> 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Christmas

“I suppose vampires dream of a red Christmas.”

“I haven’t dreamt of Christmas in over a hundred years.”

John took one last look at the snow-covered street and then let the curtain fall back into place. As she turned, Sherlock lowered her violin. She had that look, that look that told John that she was remembering.

“My human form died in November, and when the day came, I was outside, looking through the window at the Christmas I had expected to celebrate. I never thought—or dreamt—of it again.”

“Sherlock…”

“I’m going to retire early, John. Good day.”

“You’ve post,” John called as Sherlock retreated down the hall.

“My sister always sends a card. You’re welcome to open it. I never do.”

Sherlock’s bedroom door closed.

The front of the card bore a vintage Victorian scene of three cherub-faced children in front of a roaring fire, gazing fondly towards a decorated tree. Inside, it read, ‘Best wishes for a New Year. Mycroft.’

John turned over the envelope; then she grabbed her coat and cane.

* * *

“Good morning.”

“Um, hello,” John glanced down at the envelope in her hand and then looked over her shoulder at the street behind her, “is this the residence of Mycroft Holmes?”

“Mistress is not in.”

And with a few clipped words, John knew that that this pretty girl in a maid’s uniform was much more than a servant.

Remembering her last encounter with a thrall, John leaned heavily on her cane and stepped away from the door. A voice from inside said, “That will be all, Anthea.”

The girl turned, curtsied, and disappeared.

The figure that took her place was tall, taller than Sherlock, with dark hair, clipped short. Dark eyes studied John with an intensity that to anyone else might be disturbing. It felt familiar, almost comforting, to John.

“Ms. Holmes, I’m…”

“Doctor Watson.” She smiled, and instantly, her features softened. “Please call me Mycroft.”

“Okay, uh, Mycroft. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not all of us require as much repose as my sister.”

John bit her lip. “Uh, I’m not sure the protocol exactly.”

“It is _I_ who require an invitation from _you_.”

“May I come in?”

“By all means.” Mycroft held the door open and made an ushering gesture. Then suddenly, her hand flew to her mouth and she stepped into the doorway, blocking John’s entrance. “Oh, welcome visitors are such a rare pleasantry that I almost forgot! Please excuse me for the briefest of moments. Must chain up the maid.”

* * *

Sherlock opened her eyes. She pushed the lid aside and sat up.

The air was heavy with scent.

Blood! John’s blood! Lots of it. Fresh. And…if Sherlock had had a stomach, it would’ve twisted into a knot…Mycroft!

Sherlock growled and leapt from her resting place. Normally she would take the utmost care in showering and dressing before greeting John for the evening. Any overt reminder of where Sherlock actually spent her day disquieted John, and Sherlock couldn’t blame her. She could remember a day when she, too, would have been uneasy knowing that her flatmate-cum-lover slept in a coffin filled with the soil of her own grave.

But that day was long gone, and right now there was no time for pleasantries.

Mycroft had hurt John! Fed from her!

Sherlock flew down the hall.

And stopped.

And stared, open-mouthed.

The entire flat had been transformed.

“It’s Christmas,” said Sherlock.

John turned and gripped the back of the armchair. “Circa 1891,” she said.

And so it was. Garlands of red-berried holly were draped along the mantelpiece above the raging fire. Behind John was a sweet-smelling tree decorated with gilded nutshells and paper flowers and strings of popcorn and cherries and topped with a trumpet-blowing angel. A pair of wreaths hung in the window. Candles burned everywhere, on the mantelpiece, on the tree, in the windows—on every flat surface available.

The entire room was awash in warm, flickering light.

“It’s beautiful,” said Sherlock.

John smiled. She fit seamlessly into the scene in a vintage gown of deep blue, with an open neckline, tight bodice, and full skirt. Her hair was parted and pinned in neat buns.

“ _You’re_ beautiful,” continued Sherlock.

“Is it right?” asked John, tugging at her skirt. “The lady at the fancy dress shop said…”

“It’s perfect.” Sherlock moved closer until she could take one of John’s hands in both of hers.

“I wanted to give you the Christmas that you missed.”

Sherlock shook her head slowly. Though she loathed to state the obvious, she could scarcely believe her conclusion. “All this is for me?”

John nodded. “I’m soaking some raisins. We can play snapdragon or charades or…”

“But…” Sherlock frowned. The blood! Mycroft!

“Your gift.” John walked slowly to Sherlock’s armchair and bent over the seat. When she turned back, she was holding a wineskin.

The aroma was unmistakable.

“John,” Sherlock breathed.

“Your sister said that you used to like to drink from these.”

Sherlock took the soft pouch with trembling hands. It was heavy.

“There’s a pint, what humans donate every day,” said John.

“You let Mycroft drain you!” cried Sherlock in horror. Oh, there would be much, much more than Hell to pay…

John shook her head. “She showed me the best vein, but I did it myself.”

Sherlock quickly took up John’s arm, and after tossing the plaster and a bit of gauze in the fire, licked the inside of her elbow. The purple mark vanished.

The act soothed her; so much so that when she looked into John’s eyes, her voice was low and even,

“Thank you. I’m humbled and grateful beyond words. In this form or any other, no one has ever done anything like this for me. Ever. I don’t know what to say.”

“How about, ‘I’m going to get dressed’?”

Sherlock looked down. She was still naked. And crusted with grave-dirt.

“Yes, yes. I will shower and dress. Right now.”

“I got something at the shop for you, too.” John nodded to a zippered suit bag hanging from a hook on the wall. “I wasn’t sure if you’d kept any of your, um, clothes. Your sister said you’d prefer gentlemen’s attire.”

Mycroft! Sherlock’s anger flared again, but died quickly.

“Thank you. Very thoughtful. Yes, but this,” Sherlock looked down at the wineskin, “is too much. I’ll be drunk.”

“Really?” John laughed. “That might be fun. There’s a bit of mulled wine simmering. We could both enjoy a bit of holiday cheer.”

Sherlock smiled. She caressed the wineskin and said offhandedly, “Maybe just a taste, uh, before I go and, um…”

John nodded. “Go on. It’s Christmas.”

Sherlock unscrewed the tip, toasted John with a wry ‘God bless us every one,’ and drank. She closed her eyes as she swallowed. It was like nectar, rich and sweet. John’s blood was like no other she had ever tasted, and even from the very first sip, she had known that no other would satisfy her for the rest of condemned existence.

Sherlock wanted more, but she would wait. She wiped her mouth with her hand and replaced the tip of the pouch. She leaned forward to kiss John, but stopped when she caught John’s minute grimace. She looked at her own hand smeared red.

Right. Kissing with a bloody mouth. A bit Not Good.

Then Sherlock’s eyes travelled from her own hand to John’s, which still held onto the armchair with a white-knuckled grip.

“John, you’re fatigued. Of course, you are. You went out, you did all of this, and now your body’s repairing itself. Rest, please. I’ll only be a few minutes. I’ll wash. All of me.” That last was spoken like an oath. “And then we can celebrate Christmas. Together.”

John smiled. She pressed her lips to Sherlock’s cheek.

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

“And to you, John.”

* * *

They were seated on the floor in front of the fire.

“I’m drunk.” Sherlock giggled and tossed the empty wineskin aside.

“Yes, you are.” John laughed. “I suspect what you’re drinking is more formidable than this mulled wine.” She sipped from her mug.

“Indeed. And this is such a silly game, John. And it hardly seems fair, I mean, you’re sure to burn yourself while I,” Sherlock stuck her whole hand in the flaming bowl, “cannot possibly burn myself.” She lifted her cupped hand and let the raisins fall back into the bowl.

John’s voice was low and teasing. “But if I burn myself, you’ll lick it and make it better.”

“Absolutely,” said Sherlock.

“So even when I lose, I win.”

Sherlock’s eyes turned dark and hungry. “Though see the appeal, but I want to play a different game.” She reached for John. John set her mug on the floor beneath the armchair and settled into Sherlock’s embrace.

“What’s that?”

“Kiss-every-part-of-John’s-body-until-she-screams-my-name.”

“My favourite.”

“Mine, too.”

* * *

Sherlock stoked the fire and watched John sleep curled on the rug beneath the tree. She snuck back to John’s side and pulled the heavy blanket over both of them. She touched John’s temple lightly and found her hair damp with sweat.

John stirred and mumbled, “Warm.”

Sherlock smiled at the reassurance. Having no need for internal thermoregulation herself, Sherlock was given to ignoring the elements, such as weather and temperature. It was her one blind spot, and the idea of John suffering cold filled her with irrational panic.

John squirmed against Sherlock, wiggling her bottom and Sherlock answered the playful invitation by rocking their hips together slowly, lazily.

John took Sherlock’s hand, the one pinned beneath them, and placed it awkwardly over her breast. The other she brought between her legs. She turned her head and murmured, “Fuck me.”

“Gently?” whispered Sherlock. She bent her head to lick at the spot on John’s neck where her pulse fluttered.

John hummed. “And then not-so-gently.”

Sherlock chuckled. It was hours until dawn, and though she didn’t share in the physical sensations, she delighted in wringing every ounce of pleasure from John’s body until her own life force—if it could be called as such—began to wane for the night. She fondled John’s breast and petted her mons. She teased John’s clit and the lips of her cunt and probed gently with one finger. John whimpered and reached back to bury her fingers in Sherlock’s hair.

“Little thief, you haven’t just stolen my non-existent heart, you’ve also taken the very pallor from my skin.”

And it was true. Sherlock’s body, down to her pubic hair, normally bore a disquieting grey undertone, but with the glut of nourishment, her skin was flush and healthy and her hair, all of it, a rich dark brown.

“Sherlock!” John clamped her legs around Sherlock’s hand and arched her back. Her fingernails clawed at Sherlock’s scalp.

No sooner had John’s breathing slowed than she was pleading, “More, Sherlock.”

Sherlock reached for a pillow and rolled them until John was mounting it and Sherlock was behind her, on her knees, thrusting against her.

_SMACK! SMACK!_

Sherlock slapped John’s buttocks and ran firm hands up and down her back, massaging the muscles in deep, circling strokes.

John groaned. Then she pushed up on her hands and knees. Sherlock bent forward and grabbed John’s breasts roughly, squeezing the flesh and pinching the nipples. Then, she stopped. She stared at the back of John’s neck. She could do it. She was well in control of her instincts for the moment.

She lowered her fangs and scraped very gently at John’s skin just where neck sloped to shoulder.

John stilled. “Are those your…?”

“I’ve fed so well, John, there’s no temptation.”

“Christ, the things I let you do to me.”

It was a thought that had often crossed Sherlock’s mind in few short weeks since they’d met, but there was no time for reflection on their whirlwind romance. John was begging.

“Don’t stop, Sherlock. Keep fucking me, please. Rough. Hard.”

Sherlock placed a hand at the centre of John’s back and shoved her back to the floor. Then she sat up and bucked into John, slapping her thighs against John’s buttocks as if driving a cock deep inside her. And as John rut against the pillow crying, “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Sherlock came to a sober realisation: she was as hopelessly bound as any of the nameless chattel she’d conscripted to do her bidding through the years.

She was, in a word, enthralled.

* * *

John sat up on her forearms and looked down at Sherlock through half-lidded eyes. Her voice was thick. “Unless my body betrays me, your Christmas may be white, Sherlock, but your Boxing Day will be blood red.”

Sherlock kissed the inside of John’s thigh. “You needn’t, John. I’ve already gorged myself. I shan’t need to eat for at least three months.”

John hummed softly and brushed a lock of hair from Sherlock’s face. “And here I was imagining making a little nest right here between the fire and the tree, and you drinking from me.”

The image formed instantly in Sherlock’s mind. She dropped her head and moaned John’s name into the mound of blankets and discarded clothing beneath them.

After breathing in John’s scent for a few moment, Sherlock looked up. Then she leaned forward so as to cradle John’s jaw in her hand, and, when certain she had John’s full attention, said solemnly, “I have prepared no gift for you, John. Tell me what you want; anything in the natural or unnatural word that your noble heart desires, it is yours.”

John tore her eyes from Sherlock’s and looked around the room, to a far corner, where the chrome of her cane reflected the last of the dying candlelight.

“I want my strength back. I want to be able to walk or run outside these walls without having to siphon your supernatural power. And I want a job. I know it will be difficult with my history, but I want something to do during the day when you’re…”

“Rehabilitation and gainful employment. Very practical and straightforward. We can work together, starting…”

“After the New Year?”

Sherlock nodded.

John kissed her lips softly. When she pulled away, her gaze went to Sherlock’s mouth. She brushed her thumb across Sherlock’s bottom lip.

“You can lower them without, you know, the rest?”

Sherlock nodded.

“May I see?”

Sherlock opened her mouth and watched the fear and wonder in John’s eyes. Much to her surprise, she found that she no longer craved the fear. Fear was for thralls and other creatures of no importance. Not John. And since making John moan was out of the question for the moment, she choose the next best option: making her laugh.

Sherlock distorted her face and made a clawing gesture.

John giggled with surprise. “Nosferatu!”

“My Max Schreck is quite good, I have to admit.”

John rolled to the side, knocking Sherlock in the head with her knee.

“Oh, Lord. Sorry.”

Sherlock gave a dismissive wave. “You cannot hurt me, John.”

But, even as she said the words, Sherlock knew that they were not entirely true.

* * *

John yawned.

There was the sound of the front door opening and footsteps on the stairs. A voice called, “Good tidings of the season, one and all!”

“Mycroft!” growled Sherlock. She conjured two dressing gowns from thin air and handed one to John.

John was just tying the sash when Mycroft appeared in the doorway.

“Happy Christmas, Doctor!” she said cheerily, peering around Sherlock who was standing in front of John, pointedly blocking Mycroft’s view of her.

“Happy Christmas, Mycroft. Excuse me for just a moment.” John slipped around Sherlock and disappeared up the stairs.

“What are you doing here?” hissed Sherlock.

“Wishing glad tidings to you and your household. Tis the season! And, as ever, I was interested.”

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘interest.’ And I’ll have you know, if one drop of John’s blood passes your lips, the gates of Hell will not protect you from me!”

“Always so aggressive. And the gates of Hell don’t protect anyone. I’ve seen them. So have you. Did it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”

“Oddly enough, no!”

Mycroft turned her head, surveying the room and nodding. Then she gestured to the mantelpiece and windows and tree. “All this was done out of unselfish—“

“Don’t say it!”

“—love. You know, Sherlock, there are stories. Of redemption.”

“This time of year, are there any other kind?” Sherlock scoffed. “Pure superstition.”

“Nevertheless,” Mycroft glanced toward the stairs, “I can see why you like her. Even tainted with your foul stench, she smells absolutely—“

“ONE DROP!” roared Sherlock, transforming. She advanced on Mycroft with fangs bared, claws flexed, and her face distorted into a mask of grotesque rage. Mycroft transformed, too, snarling. She drew a gleaming sword from the shaft of her umbrella and raised it to Sherlock’s head.

“Oh God!”

Both vampires turned to see John, frozen, at the top of the stairs. A brown-paper parcel fell from her hands.

Mycroft and Sherlock shifted back their human shapes. Each brushed her clothing and smoothed her hair with nervous and unnecessary fastidiousness while John bent to pick up what she had dropped.

“Apologies, Doctor,” said Mycroft. “This petty feud between sisters is so childish. It is upsetting, I know. It always upset, Mummy.”

Sherlock laughed bitterly. “Really? Is _that_ what upset her, Mycroft?”

Mycroft re-sheathed her sword and made a welcoming gesture. “Please. No harm shall come to you, I promise.”

John didn’t move.

“She’s right,” said Sherlock. “But you’re wise to be cautious, John. The promise of a vampire is not worth the blood it’s written in. Just ask the inkwell.”

John looked from Sherlock to Mycroft and then back to Sherlock. Then she slowly made her way down the stairs. She held the wrapped parcel out to Mycroft and said, “It’s for you. Happy Christmas!”

Mycroft stared. Sherlock stared. No one moved nor spoke for some time.

Finally, Mycroft cleared her throat. “Well done, Doctor Watson, you’ve done the impossible: rendered two vampires speechless.” She took the gift and ran her hands along the length of it and without unwrapping, pronounced, “An umbrella. An antique umbrella.”

John laughed. “You do deductions too, I see.”

“I am the smart one, Doctor Watson.”

“You are _not_ the smart one!” cried Sherlock.

John said, “You seemed to have quite the collection of them. Thank you for your help the other day. As you can see, everything turned out beautifully.”

“So it did. It was my pleasure. Truly.”

Mycroft stepped towards John, but Sherlock quickly inserted herself between the two. “Good-bye, Mycroft. Don’t come again.”

“Sherlock, if you can’t see to interest yourself in,” she looked over Sherlock’s shoulder, “the case I mentioned, I’ll do a bit of research myself. May prove worthwhile.”

“Please, be my guest, but be it somewhere else. Forever.”

“Happy New Year, Doctor Watson. Until next time, Sherlock.”

There was the sound of the front door closing.

“You were a bit rude, Sherlock. She was kind.”

“Vampires know no kindness, John. Remember that.”

John shrugged. Then she approached Sherlock and pressed her lips to her silk-clad shoulder and murmured, “So if, later this evening, I asked you to draw me a bath, you’d refuse?”

Sherlock’s voice fell to a hush, but her words were cool. “It would be in my selfish interest to ensure that your body and mind are relaxed.”

“Cynical,” said John.

“Vampire,” replied Sherlock.

“The blood flow more freely, does it? Or is it sweeter?” John pulled her lips back and bit Sherlock’s shoulder playfully.

“When mixed with emissions from your orgasm, it is an elixir without rival.” Then Sherlock sighed and said wearily, “I must retire, John. And I suggest that you do the same. Fortify yourself by whatever means available for I intend to tax your physical stamina—as well as your capacity for pleasure—the whole of the night to come.”

John smiled and nodded.

Sherlock brushed her lips across her brow. “I told you that I had not dreamt of Christmas in over a century. I am certain that will change forthwith.” She took John’s hand and kissed it gallantly. “Until dusk, little thief.”

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Happy Christmas, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
